Reality
by jazflower
Summary: How do we determine what is real? Is it by looking at experiences we’ve had; things that we’ve physically done? But what if those experiences themselves where the product of something not true to begin with - does that make them any less real?
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I do not in any way own Bleach or anything associated with it

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Prologue

Sand whipped up against the window as gloved hands slowly and carefully poured a greeny-blue liquid into a tube. It oozed through the tube until it reached the very end where it started to drip into a jar which held a revolting yellow substance that wasn't really a liquid, but wasn't kept together enough to be classed as a solid. The colours mixed to produce a darker green colour with hints of blue in it. The hand reached across and picked up a thermometer and placed it into the mass in the jar and then recorded the temperature in a small notebook that had previously been on a neatly organised desk near the table in which the experiment was taking place.

The person walked over to the draws in a cupboard across the room and grabbed a small Bunsen burner and set it up next to the jar. Once the blue flame was the right height and temperature the gloves picked up the jar and placed it over the open flame so that the entire jar was exposed to the heat. The mass started to bubble and lose its solidity until it oozed in the jar. The flames licked up the jar charring the stainless glass and burning the newly formed liquid, turning it an ashen colour. After a few more minutes the flame was turned off and the bubbles in the liquid popped loudly in the silent room. The hands reached once more for the thermometer and the reading was satisfactory. The experiment was complete.

Just in time.

The doors to the lab opened grandly and a tall proud figure strode in, walking up to the glove wearing person.

"Is it finished?" The question was spoken softly and if it had been anyone else you would have thought that they wearing asking with a hint of mild curiosity and that it wouldn't matter if the answer had of been no. But this was not just anybody. When this man asked his softly spoken questions in his pleasant voice what he was really say was "Is it finished? Because if it's not heads will roll – your head to be specific." Thankfully it had just finished.

"Yes, it's ready but untested; it might not be safe and the subjects might die..." The other man had turned away and picked up the jar that was exuding a foul odour.

"I am aware of the risks and I have found that I really don't mind what happens to them to be completely honest. Thank you for the time you have put into this little... pet project of mine." And with that the man walked out, jar in hand, and away from the lab.

The remaining person let out the breath which he hadn't realised he'd been holding and turned back towards his desk. A smile grew on his face as he thought of the subjects. He had been working on this project for almost two years, perfecting the substance and he was pretty sure it was perfect. But even so, if it was even slightly wrong, as it had been in the past, the subjects could very well die, and he knew from past experiences that their deaths would not be pleasant, in fact they would be excruciatingly painful and drawn-out. His smile grew wider still. Whatever the end result he would be satisfied with it.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The sun was barely up, casting long shadows across the grimy window pane as the occupant of the small room stirred. A small hand reached up and pushed himself out of the warm cacoon his blankets had formed around him and instantly he was assaulted with the crisp morning air, which helped to wake him up. He slowly walked over to the dirty and breaking dresser and opened it with a loud _creak_. He mumbled softly to himself, glad that the noise hadn't woken any one in nearby rooms up, though he hadn't expected it to. It was a sort of ritual he had developed in the morning: wake up early, open dresser loudly, take a shower, eat breakfast and do chores before going to school, all the while avoiding everyone as much as he could. He found that a lot of things in his life were based around rituals and constants. In a way it was comforting and familiar if not repetitive and boring.

After his shower he walked down the hall silently towards the dining room, his head bowed. It was very unusual for anybody else to be up at this hour, but you could never be too cautious. On his way to the poorly cleaned room, that in all reality wasn't hygienic enough for food, he passed the large ornate mirror – the only thing of worth in the whole place. Everyone loved to walk past the mirror, looking at themselves, and he would often catch a few of the girls standing in front of it for ages just looking at themselves. But not him. He personally hated whoever invented something as stupid as mirrors, because every time he was forced to pass one he would be reminded of why he hated them in the first place. It wasn't that he didn't like his appearance – well actually he did a little – it was just that it was so abnormal, so different, and in a world like this one being different instantly isolated and alienated you from everyone. But he told himself that it was fine; he didn't generally like people either.

As he sat eating his breakfast he thought of what he needed for school that day. He would need a book, maybe a pen if he could find one, and also if he was quiet he might be able to sneak a sandwich out of the kitchens when the cook wasn't looking. That thought was tempting, but it was too risky; if he got caught he would probably be belted, and that really hurt.

He snapped his head round as the doors opened. He narrowed his eyes dangerously, as though in warning to the boy that had just entered. Eric Fullman. The arrogant blond was a European who had recently turned thirteen and thought that he was the best of the best. He loved to make peoples' lives a misery and his favourite victim was already sitting at the table eating breakfast, as though just waiting to be teased. It didn't help either that Eric was at least a whole head taller than him, a fact which he loved to lord over him.

Eric walked forward, his permanent sneer in place as he looked in scorn at the boy sitting down.

"Toushirou, you're up early, aren't' 'cha? And here I thought you'd want to get as much sleep as you could possibly get, after all, how'll you grow if you don't sleep properly, ne? Oh wait, maybe you're gettin' a head start on gettin' all your calcium." Eric smirked, apparently satisfied with his mocking. Toushirou, however, only lifted an eyebrow in disinterest before ignoring the blond and his somewhat unintelligent teasing. It was the same old jokes every single day – that in itself had become a bit of a ritual as well. Eric's sneer turned into a frown. It had been like this for so long he had forgotten when it had started; he used to be able to get such a rise out of the boy, but now it didn't matter what he said, all the cold boy would ever do would be lift his eyebrow as though saying "is that all you've got, pathetic" and it annoyed the hell out of him. Deciding on a different course of action he sat next to Toushirou. Toushirou for his part never stopped eating, his eyes trained forward even though Eric's dark blue eyes bore into the side of his head. He never dropped his gaze, but once again he was ignored – it was truly frustrating! For the rest of the morning Toushirou would get ready for school and do his chores, and through it all Eric stuck to his side like glue, invading his personal space. On the outside Toushirou portrayed an image of calm composure, but on the inside he was getting very frustrated and extremely annoyed; he hated people in his personal space. As he worked more people rose to have breakfast, both children and adults, the noise levels raising dramatically as though someone was turning a dial. The people, the place, even the atmosphere, he hated it, and one day he would be able to get away from it all. He stared at the drab, grey walls that surrounded the buildings, prison walls to keep them caged inside.

The buildings were decrepit and old, nearly sixty-seven years old to be precise, and they made up the 'Orphanage for Unprivileged Children', but Toushirou secretly called it 'Hell' in his own mind. He had been there for as long as he could remember and everyday was slowly wearing him down. He used to be so strong, to be able to face the torments and horrors that orphan lives entailed, but without anyone there and having to look at the same undecorated walls each and every day he was slowly losing his mental battle. On the outside he continued to act as if he didn't care, but really he did. He didn't like people, and he was usually better off without them, but having at least one person he could talk to and rely on would be nice.

_One day I will be free to do whatever I want, and when that day comes I will leave this place far, far behind me and never look back._ Every day he repeated this to himself, a promise that he would keep no matter what. He had long ago given up hope of being adopted. He used to watch people come and go in the orphanage, children that everyone wanted. But whenever potential parents had come to visit him they would always turn away quickly and keep walking. He knew that nobody wanted a child that looked like him – short, with naturally white hair and unique, unnaturally coloured aqua eyes. And it wasn't just his appearance that put him off, it was his 'aura' as well, or so says one the girls – Hayashi Amaya. She had told him that he freaked people out because he always acted so mature and superior, like he was some sort of leader or something. And it didn't matter what he did he could never get rid of this 'aura'.

He finished sweeping the floors just in time to go to school. Eric had long since given up on trying to annoy the obviously un-annoyable boy and had left a little while ago. Now standing in the corridor with no-one around, as they had all already left for school, he noticed how quiet it was. Moments of quiet like this one were rare to say the least and they were to be cherished. He would probably be late for school – again – but that didn't really matter. Going to school was just a formality, something he was required to do. But the truth was he didn't need school, he was far too advanced for anything the teachers could ask him, and there were only so many times he could skip a year. Already he had skipped five years to be in year 10, something he was very much resented for, and no teachers were willing to skip him any further – something about not wanting the other students to feel any worse than they already do about the situation. Like he could care less about how they felt – he just didn't want to be bored out of his mind every day.

He slowly walked to school, his feet dragging on the bitumen of the road surface, making scraping noises. Shoes were expensive to buy so scraping them across such a hard surface was something he probably shouldn't do, but he couldn't bring himself to care. His attitude to most things lately had become very apathetic.

The school loomed over him as he arrived at the gates, but he refused to be intimidated by them, and so instead pushed them open and walked inside. He was by now ten minutes late, but the teachers knew to expect him around this time, because he generally was always late. The pristine halls were empty as all the students were in their classes, so he wasn't hassled on his way to his own classroom.

When he reached the door he pushed it open and without any spectacular scene he went to his desk and sat down; nobody even blinked an eyelash. The teacher just continued droning on about whatever it was he was talking about before Toushirou had arrived. Everyone that is, except the person he sat next to – Kurasaki Ichigo. The red head leaned over and gave the smaller child a small smile and bid him good morning before straightening up again. He was about the only person in the whole school who was even remotely civil to him; who didn't feel in the least threatened by him. But Ichigo never hung around him because he was in with the 'cool' crowd, and nobody from that crowd would ever associate themselves with the little orphan boy. But that was just the order of things – the structure of the school if you will.

Toushirou sat for the rest of the lesson looking out the window at the trees gently swaying in the wind. He didn't even notice how much time had passed until the bell for recess had rung and all the students practically stampeded out of the stuffy classroom. Ichigo lingered behind to make his brief small talk that he always does.

"So how have you been Toushirou? You weren't at school for the last couple of days and I heard from Jiro that you were sick with flu, are you better now?" Toushirou narrowed his eyes slightly in thought. He didn't really remember being sick, but the memory was there, though it seemed a bit distant. That seemed to be the case with all his memories – they were there, but it was as though he was looking at somebody else's life.

"Yeah, I'm fine, it wasn't anything serious. Well, I guess I'll see you later then." Ichigo smiled weakly before leaving to join his friends outside. Toushirou watched as the red head sat with them. He always seemed to get the impression that Ichigo didn't really like them, but he hung out with them any way. He didn't know why, but that was the way it had always been. He wondered how Ichigo had even managed to get into that group because it looked as though being blonde was a requisite considering practically every single member of the group had blonde hair. He sighed as he went to find his tree that he always sat under. He felt so confused lately, and he knew that it was largely Kurosaki's fault – every time he was around the older boy he kept getting these weird... thoughts you could probably call them. Actually, they were more like pictures in his mind – blurry, out-of-focus pictures of things that have never happened, and it was puzzling to say the least. He sighed as he took a bite out of his food, deciding to just forget about the 'mystery' for now.

The rest of the day passed by normally; nothing unusual or strange, which wasn't very surprising. It was unheard of for something that wasn't part of the routine which was his life to occur. After break he had gone back into class and suffered for whatever was left of the day before returning 'home' – and he used that term very loosely – and doing his afternoon chores, eating dinner and then going to bed. A very normal day. As he lay in bed that night he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like for something un-normal to happen – though he didn't hold out any hope for that, it was impossible.


End file.
